


Anesthesia Mansion

by IntravenousDollhouse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fatkink, Haunted House, Horror, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Nightmares, Unhealthy Relationships, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntravenousDollhouse/pseuds/IntravenousDollhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Freedom’ is not without a cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anesthesia Mansion

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Christmas fic! It also contains descriptive weight gain, implied death, and a very unhealthy relationship. If these elements are upsetting to you, or are simply not within your interests, click the back button.

***

 

The table is carved of strange angles and bright colours. Old as the gnarled roots of a tree, and equally rough-hewn. The runner is an alternation of green and red. Perfect shades of Christmas -- true merriness. You curve a lazy finger and twirl it round an embroidered depiction of holly, sensing each silken thread.

Dave sits parallel to you. His eyebrows are drawn nearly together, and matted with tacky blood. You wonder where it originated. His scalp? Forehead?

The typical sunglasses remain affixed to his broad, soft face. You watch him carefully, wondering why he’s so silent, and still. The house itself is eerily transfixed. As though it rests in an almost blurred state. Separate -- an unsettling juxtaposition of lucid and vague. Or a partial anesthesia.

If Dave wasn’t so quiet, or maybe less hollow, you’d lean forward and press your lips to his. A goodnight kiss before you leave the table.

Of course, the thought itself startles you, as there’s no viable justification in kissing your best friend. However, in this dream -- or whatever it might be -- you’re certain he’s of a different relation to you. Not quite ‘romantic,’ but perhaps a parody of the sort.

You rise, trembling despite a contrary effort. The carpet is a plush weave. Detectable, even through your thick, fleece slippers. Upon glancing downward, you realize it’s also abominable -- as any other detail of the house. Too intricate. Composed entirely of wrongful colours and angles; yet nothing you can coherently label.

The dining room is generally old-fashioned. Polished wood and lavish furniture. The lamps are frosted glass-work, and in each corner stands a carving of distressed stone. Sleeping faces. They’re all different. The one nearest you is of a girl. It’s an astounding creation. Even her eyelashes are carved in poignant detail.

You turn to glance at Dave, but he’s gone.

 

***

 

The swollen sacs of sleepless flesh beneath your eyes become worse with each obsessive night. Your visions aren’t quite dreams -- and they’re far from prophetic; as such fantasies cannot rationally materialize. For that, at least, you’re grateful.

Each gauzy experience breathes in the same house. A bitter place, detached from coherency. You’ve never visited a home which seemed almost to live. One that maintained its own existence. Dependent upon a personal, diseased, trapped energy -- and devoid of living caretakers.

Your mind is relaxed when you eat. Rather, it adopts a calm parody of sense. You’re able to coexist with the apartment. As it truly is. Instead of the tasteless, tired joke your fevered brain fabricates. Because as true exhaustion plagues you, the simple rooms and singular hallway of your shared apartment begins to reflect a certain mad mansion.

So you eat. 

Dirk enjoys cooking, so you permit the hobby, even if it makes you ill to be pampered by him. 

Stew, curry, pasta. He never bakes.

Supposedly, he prefers savory flavours to sweet ones. Although, since he subtly recoils from his own concoctions, you’re uncertain of how relevant the excuse is.

“Dave?”

“Yeah. I’m in the bathtub.”

“I figured. It’s always the bathtub.”

He’s silent, then. You refrain from questioning him, and his various eccentricities. He returns the unspoken favour.

“The dreams.”

You groan quietly. 

“They’re not dreams. I already walked you through this. Held your fuckin’ hand and everything. Come on.”

“Right. Not dreams.” 

He notices the enormous canteen of stew clutched between your cold, damp hands, and smiles fondly.

“I’m glad it’s decent.”

“Nope, your cooking sucks.” 

Your words are punctuated with a couple pointed gulps of stew. It’s hot, thick, and meaty. Dirk is generous with his protein proportions.

“Man, you’re fucking weird. Straight from abject trauma to mysterious smirking.”

“I’m complex.”

“Well, just make sure you finish what’s there. We’ve had it for a few days already.”

Liar.

“No. This is a new batch. Remember?”

He neither flushes nor flinches. At times, speaking with Dirk is comparable to addressing a marble bust. A marble bust of a brick wall.

“So. Did you see him again?”

“Who.”

Dirk sighs. A nearly inaudible puff of air. The glorious indication of inner life endears you to him.

“Egbert? Yeah. I couldn’t see him though. Could only hear his dumb, confused voice.” 

His frightened voice.

“I’m going to grab the other leftovers, okay?”

You imagine there’s a startling flash of concern behind his shades. He no longer wears them during sleep, but is quick to don the absurd defense immediately upon waking. You wonder why -- after all the intimacy you’ve purportedly shared with him -- he still cannot bear to be completely vulnerable in your presence.

“Here we go.”

He returns swiftly; left arm laden with bowls, and the right slung about a dainty, collapsible table.

“That was fast.”

“Was it?”

Dirk fixes you with what might be an unnerved gaze -- if he were inclined to present unguarded emotions.

“Uh, I guess not.”

“Well, if you’re done that stew, pass the bowl back over here and start in on this World Champion curry.”

“World Champion?”

His grin is a tiny, controlled quirk of the lips. 

“Universe-Champion. Several universes.”

At times, you wonder how he became your lover. Similar musings inevitably lead to pondering how he became your guardian. You despise this bleak replica of Texas, and abhor the apartment he chose.

“You know, I don’t need you to cook for me all the time. I mean, it’s great that you’re looking out for my health and all. I know I was a frail waif when we met, or whatever, but now it’s just overkill. A lady’s got to watch her figure and all.”

“Your figure is perfect. Especially those tits. I mean, damn. Maintaining that ladylike silhouette isn’t ever going to be an issue.”

The empty bowl is empty -- but immense and heavy in your hands. You consider hurling it at his smug face to shatter the illusion of calm wit, but refrain. He gently takes it; sensing disproportionate animosity.

“Hey. You know I didn’t --”

“I know. Relax. It’s not a big deal. It’s just harder to lose weight now that we’re not...”

“Want to strife?”

“Fuck no. Never.”

“Good.”

A wide crescent of flesh peaks beneath your rising hem. It sways gently as you struggle to regain modesty. Though the glass of his shades is nearly impenetrable, you’re certain Dirk’s eyes are trained on your exposed stomach. In confirmation of the suspicion, he presses a tentative hand against it; rubbing slowly -- dotingly.

Your skin becomes hot with a livid red flush, and his encouraging touch.

“You should keep eating. It’ll calm you down.”

He shrugs. The suggestion seems harmless, yet in a distant manner, you recognize it isn’t.

Still, you continue to eat. Each bite is warm, comforting. Dirk massages your belly, and his calloused fingertips are an incidental emollient, riling your taut skin further. 

Your chewing pattern is rhythmic and demure, as if spurned by a form of hypnosis. 

His other hand descends to soothe the remaining tension in your thighs. Stress steadily oozes from your body, causing a heightened sense of distance. Glaring lights are set into the ceiling tiles of your bathroom. Deep within each dreary swirl of incandescence lies a nightmarish mirage. If your eyes weren’t protected by the shades John once presented you, they’d certainly ache. 

The lights are an irrelevant set of items to ogle, and are therefore safe. Glowing elements draw your mindless fantasy, and paint a genuine, juxtapositional darkness. Dirk cannot trace your eyeline. He’s distracted by the gelatinous swell of your body between his fingers. Even you’re briefly coerced back to lucidity by the gradual strain of exhausted stitches. The seams of your red sweatpants are especially ill-fated, and in moments, rippling flesh pours through a newborn rift. Lingering enthrallment prevents the subsequent spread of humiliation.

Dirk’s smile is obvious, though you’re still not focused on him. Instead, you think of John, even as you begin to envision his likeness in the lights.

A flicker of panic. 

You’re back.

“The fuck happened to my pants.”

“You needed new ones anyway.”

The dishes are empty, and a pleasant soreness lingering in the swell of your belly indicates why. You shift to examine the digital clock affixed to Dirk’s terrible fuchsia iPod dock. Each limb feels thick and encumbered. Movement is inconvenient. The bathtub is an impressive size -- much larger than any apartment standard. However, you’ve evidently outgrown its confines. With thriving impatience you shift sideways, hoping to dislodge a trapped roll of flesh. It surges forward enthusiastically, immediately filling each iota of space you’re able to seize. 

It’s after midnight.

Dirk arches over you, graceful, and swift. He uses a pocket-knife to carefully remove each ruined swath of clothing from your swollen body.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah. Merry Christmas.”

 

***

 

The mansion is cold.

You’d found Dave -- rather, his carbon affinity -- lurking in a circle of red lanterns, deep within the grand home’s twisted bowels. His image had soon faded, leaving you to reluctantly examine the lovely lamps. They exude a soothing heat, which protects you from descending snowflakes. 

There are no holes in the ceiling’s gilded plaster. No unfortunate skylights. Yet snow still falls in thick sheafs, building drifts along improper, non-Euclidean corners, and quilting the horrendous statues.

You’re happy for their false absence, as each one is a complex abomination. A selective few even possess horns -- and you’re slowly beginning to recognize each one. Humans, and trolls. The memories will return in full, eventually, and when they do, you’ll be beyond any warmth, or comfort.

So you wait in the circle of carmine; essentially, to die.

Though it was a lonely parody of the real Dave, you wish his clone had remained. If nothing else, you’d have liked to wish him a Merry Christmas.

 

***

 

Years have passed since your untimely escape from the game. Unpleasant memories are written across your subconscious as nightmares, though they’re incomparable to Dave’s. He’s unaware of the strategies you used to liberate him, and yourself. 

He doesn’t know how you managed to exploit Sburb -- or that, fundamentally, you cheated.

You walk into the bedroom and retrieve a pillow for Dave. 

At times, you think of how his nightmares are identical to your own. How, in his personal rendition of madness, a boy named John wanders where Jake once did in yours.

When the nightmares -- the visions -- coagulate, swell, and persist against your mind, you cook. In each pot, you bring guilt to a gentle simmer. Hesitance, anger, resentment, grieving. They’re all delicious; or so Dave reiterates. You watch him absorb them; gaining the weight of each buried emotion.

The process feeds you, in an undoubtedly perverse fashion, and you’re wholly addicted.

“Lift your head.”

Dave responds slowly, tilting his round face downward, to merge with the flesh of a plush neck. The angle creates a couple extra curves to support his original chin, and you smile; charmed by his softened features.

You slip the pillow behind his slightly damp hair.

“Alright. Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Mind if I climb in with you? S’fine if you’d rather I didn’t.”

He chuckles. The sound is thickly weighted by his breathing.

“Nah. Get in here. It can be an exclusive tub club. Striders only.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be, man.”

His belly dips beneath your weight; pendulating. You grip the ponderous, drooping curves above his hips to maintain sufficient balance. Wide circles of flesh peak near the bottom of each quivering breast. You press your lips to one and feel the quake of flesh signifying his earnest reaction.

“Just relax.”

Dave doesn’t respond with a coherent verbalization, but you’re happy to savour each guttural, nonsensical utterance he reluctantly permits, feeling an intense, persistent heat coil in your abdomen.

His body is challenging to navigate; and therefore wonderful. 

“Try to reach me.”

You watch as he complies, struggling to bend his prodigious arms around the globe you’re seated atop. In a display of valiance, he manages to reach a roll of flesh nearly ten inches from you. 

“Alright, alright...”

A victorious smirk slides across your face, and you place a hand on his -- granting him the illusion of success.

“Nicely done.”

“Fuck you.”

He undulates his hips to punctuate the sentiment, and you’re instantly beguiled by your own creation. All that he is, belongs to you.

“I love you.”

You wonder if, behind his shades, he’s examining your face for insincerity. 

“Love you too.”

 

***

 

Dirk’s restful body is a feverish blanket against your skin. The strange sense of coziness -- possibly appreciation -- soon lulls you to sleep.

Your dreams consists of a singular room. Opulent, and beautiful, but all wrong. 

The room’s centerpiece is a carved stone effigy. 

A boy’s features -- artfully immortalized.

You walk forward, unhindered in the dream-scape, and stand by him. 

To that stone boy, you say, “Merry Christmas, John.”


End file.
